Off the Air
by cryptically
Summary: Cecil/Carlos. A romance on and off the air, with original adventures in between the released episodes. Starts after Ep. 29. Being a scientist means being detached, but it's hard to stay objective when variables in Carlos' experiment keep drawing him in. It's even harder when one of those variables is a certain radio host.
1. Ash Storm

**Author's Note:** Told in two POVs, on and off the air (Cecil and Carlos, respectively), these are my own wacky ideas for adventures going on in between broadcasts. Cecil/Carlos, expect equal parts angst and fluff. Enjoy!

* * *

**[on air]**

Sand is a symbol of corrosion. Out here, surrounded by its innumerable quantities, we are reminded of the frailty of life even as we are reminded of its fierceness as birds of prey and sharp mammals patrol the scrub lands. Everything withers, and even cacti make their peace with the desert sun. Or do they?

Welcome to Night Vale.

**[off air]**

A man in a lab coat rakes a hand through his hair. It's been called perfect, but it's really because he just shampoos and conditions it instead of one or the other. The soil samples he took from the Whispering Forest are making the Geiger counter lose its shit and no matter how many control tests he does on the books he checked out of the library two days ago, he can't replicate a result. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in the sanctuary of his car. Of all the places in Night Vale, this is the most familiar, the safest. Things make sense in a car.

Carlos the scientist waits for the man with the semaphore signals on the road to give him the go ahead. Once, he thought all this was weird.

Months ago, at the bowling alley, he thought that he had it all figured out.

But he was wrong, and someone died saving him. It's not something he forgets, and Night Vale is forever a snake's tail of logic that he thinks he can follow but that always seems to hit him with something extra weird on the way out. He's hesitant to say he's solved anything, really. Still, he's a scientist, and if scientists gave up after one thing went wrong, then there would be no knowledge at all.

Or at least, he keeps telling himself that. Just keep going.

He clicks the right turn signal on and swings his car towards the Harbor and Waterfront. He can still smell the heavy grease from Big Rico's clinging to him like a second skin. Today he started his seventeenth lab notebook, and he's not sure if he should celebrate or despair. Maybe every scientist feels like this, like you're always trying to pick out truth from nothing, stars from the void, and sometimes it's all so vacant out there that you don't know what to do or where to start.

A faint voice curls its way out of the radio, and he knows he shouldn't get so caught up in this, knows he should keep it more professional and just let things go already. You don't fall in love with the subjects of an experiment, you don't wait to drive so you can hear their voice while you wait for traffic to clear. Emotional entanglement will keep him from being objective.

He should just stop.

Still, Carlos makes the turn and, carefully, like he's hiding it from some part of himself, turns the volume dial up.

**[on air] **

Well, listeners, given the ominous ash storm that's been assaulting the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, you're probably expecting coverage on that. But the truth is, beyond the fact that there is an ominous ash storm assaulting the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, there isn't much more to report. The Sheriff's Secret Police have set up a perimeter, and while several members have dropped from heat stroke, given our treacherous and unforgiving desert sun, the ash storm has not yet ceased its battery of the facilities that were erected only a little over a year ago.

Why now? Some are asking. Why, if the Habor and Waterfront have displeased some meteorological phenomenon are we just now feeling its wrath? I mean, most of us were expecting some form of retribution after the subway vanished so abruptly a week ago. It's only natural. But I think I'm safe in going out on a limb here and postulating that a gigantic ash storm was not what we had in mind. After all, the subway was below the ground and the ash storm is above. However they do have the same number of syllables, and as any novice chanter will tell you, that and a bucket of shrimp eyes can get you pretty far.

Mayor Pamela Winchell has issued a state of emergency for Old Town Night Vale. She issued it from her office there, barricaded inside. The City Council has also issued a statement reaching out to the town for assistance with the ash storm. So, Night Vale, get in your bloodstone circles and chant.

Oh! The City Council has issued an addendum to its previous statement. They would like to clarify that they're asking _qualified chanters only_. If it wasn't clear already, that's not you, Garret Harcombe, so please don't try. Please. Do not try, Garret Harcombe. We know who you are and everyone else does, too, so do not even think about it. We still remember last time. We _all_ remember last time.

Old woman Josie called in earlier to let us know that we shouldn't worry about the ash storm, as it is an act of divine will. We can only assume that angels become less tight-lipped when corn chips and cheese doodles are in abundance. Josie did not mention which divine will was behind this or what it divinely meant to accomplish, but she did let slip that this station's favorite scientist has been spotted taking samples of the ash and that angels tend to prefer the spicy versions of contraband, wheat-byproduct-based snack food.

Thanks for looking out for us, Josie.

**[off air]**

Carlos rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. It's always like this, intriguing and horrifying, things that make him want to get close but also question the part of himself that longs for closeness. Is attraction just another way of seeking out your own destruction?

The Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area is just what it says on the tin, a harbor and a boardwalk spread out over a thick expanse of gritty sand. It kicks up when Carlos walks over it and whips into the air. This storm is too close. The perimeter of secret police is sparse and it seems like the ash storm is picking them off. On a whim, Carlos pulls out the Geiger counter and it's absolutely null. There's not even the usual trace amounts of radiation. It's like every bit of radioactive material has vanished.

He shakes his head. Fine. It only makes things more interesting.

Next to him, an officer collapses into the sand.

Carlos reaches into his bag. A year living in this city, of watching as other people worked out its mysteries and left him gaping and unable to explain how they knew what to do whatever it was they did, and now, now is the moment of truth. Someone died the last time he thought he had it figured out.

The ash storm turns, cutting into his face, and he takes out his secret weapon and throws it as far as it will go.

**[on air]**

And that's it for traffic. Don't say we didn't warn you.

In other news, mayoral candidates Hiram McDan- oh. Ladies and gentlemen, this just in. Intern Michaela has handed me this report about the ash storm. Previously, we have been unable to reach the Glow Cloud for comment. But now, the Glow Cloud has broken its silence. And how cool is that? Can you imagine? One massive meteorological object commenting on another, in our own little city? Wow. Anyway, the statement from the Glow Cloud reads as follows.

Fools. The Glow Cloud will suffer no challenger to live. ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD. YOUR LOYALTY FOR YOUR MISERABLE HUMAN LIFE. ALL HAIL. ALL. HAIL.

Oh, and intern Michaela has handed me another report. The Glow Cloud has left its residence behind and slightly above Night Vale Elementary and is now moving on the Night Vale Habor and Waterfront Recreation Area. And does anyone know why it suddenly smells like vanilla in here? Oh, and one more late breaking report: old woman Josie has called in again to let us know that Carlos...Carlos is...

But why? That is an ash storm, Carlos, and I don't care what science is floating around, this is one of those times where you just leave well enough alone. Do we remember what happened with the extremely rouge water spout and the dust devil thirty years ago, listeners? Do we?

_(weird crashing noises begin to filter through in the background, an inhuman roar cuts through)_

Ahem. Station Management is thrashing behind their door, so back to the news.

...

The news.

Night Vale, I'm going to bring you a live editorial on the scene. While I brave the elements for the sake of _the news_, we go now to the weather.

**[off air]**

The Glow Cloud moves fast, cutting across the sky like a rainbow streak and pummels into the ash storm. Whether or not the latter is sentient, it still hurts to look. The two clouds swirl around each other, raining molten rainbow ash and charred, dead animals, and sometimes dead animals covered in rainbow molten ash. Carlos is nearly crushed by an alpaca coated in chunks of violet lava, but something knocks him out of the way.

"That was really dumb!" A familiar voice, clear not stretched out over radio waves, is above him and something warm and firm is shielding him from the falling ash. "You're so smart and science-y and then things like this happen and I really wonder if you know anything about basic privacy."

Carlos winces and opens his eyes. Cecil Baldwin is propped up on top of him, his crisp oxford shirt pelted with dark ash streaks and his glasses knocked slightly askew.

"Hi." He says, a small but goofy grin quirking up his lip. Carlos tries to concentrate on the ash storm, but his scientist's brain turns treacherous and keeps picking out details and informing him of them: the way Cecil's eyelashes brush his cheek, the rabbit pulse of his heart, a shadow rising and falling in his throat, the curve of his lips...

"It should have worked." Carlos says, massaging the back of his head. He hit something when Cecil tackled him out of the way, that must be it. "Ugh."

Another failure.

"Oh, were you doing an experiment? What is it?"

Carlos looks over Cecil's shoulder and notices the clouds swirling together rapidly and changing colors like some kind of insane light show. He blinks because it's too harsh. All around them, the animals slam down from the sky harder and with greater ferocity. An overlarge, orange chipmunk whaps Cecil in the shoulder, but he brushes it off.

"Come on, were you doing science? Can I see?" Cecil leans forward over him, bringing their heads perilously close. He's still lying on Carlos' stomach, his body pressed against him to their feet. Carlos wills himself to get a grip as a flush creeps up his neck and warms his face. He tried to think about something, anything other than how warm Cecil feels, and how it's a different warmth from the sun, shivery kind that burns at the same time-

"No." Carlos says. He clears his throat, scooting back and brushing the sand off his legs. Cecil gingerly stands too, keeping the storm at his back. He's about to ask something, but then, in a flash of blinding light, the sky is clear. The Glow Cloud moves languidly over the Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, looking gravid but triumphant. Or as triumphant as a cloud can be.

"Oh." Cecil winces. "I hope we didn't make that too awkward."

Carlos is still trying to make sense of this, but goes out on a limb. "I didn't think it was-"

Cecil rolls his eyes as he fishes in his pockets and brings out a small transmitter and microphone. "Of course, you didn't think we were awkward. _You_ were the one out here in the first place. Hold on."

He flicks a switch. "Night Vale, I'm at the Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area right now and I've just witnessed something incredible. Because this program could be heard by children, I will not describe the altercation in great detail. But, suffice it to say, that our Glow Cloud, head of the school board and proud member of our town, has vanquished its nemesis."

A tendril of cloud snakes across the sky, quick like lightning, and before Carlos can do anything, Cecil stands stock-still at its touch. When he speaks, his voice is different, more sinister.

"THE GLOW CLOUD KNOWS ITS ALLIES AND ITS FOES. THE GLOW CLOUD KNOWS ALL. YOU WHO HAVE HELPED, YOUR REWARD WILL BE GREAT. ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD."

Carlos stares wide-eyed at Cecil, and then at the middle of the Harbor. Alone on the sands is the lone slice of Big Rico's pizza he threw earlier, untouched by ash and seeming completely devoid of grease. It looks like a pale, triangular ghost. A smile cracks Carlos' mouth.

He did it. His experiment worked.

Cecil, meanwhile, looks disoriented. "Sorry about that, folks. Transmissions out here are still flaky. But suffice it to say that the ash storm is gone, the Glow Cloud is moving back into the distance, and Night Vale lives to fight another day. The Sheriff's secret police are moving back into their helicopters, taking their fallen brethren, and dispersing, off to parts more unknown. And isn't that what we all do, listeners?"

Carlos' head perks up. Cecil is walking around the sand, musing to himself and twirling the cord of the microphone attachment around one finger as he does.

"We gather and we leave. The basics of diffusion say that we can't be together in one place for very long. The universe spreads us out over great distances, far spread and growing farther away each moment, but still, even as the distance between us widens and the time between the last second we were like this grows longer, more daunting, we still think back to those moments when we were all like this, like players on a vast, cosmic chessboard at the end of a long game. Together. Moving in harmony. And maybe, listeners, already aware of and cursing our cruel destinies as they pull us farther and farther apart."

Cecil looks at him when he says the last few lines, and his words are soft, like sea glass with its edges worn down.

"But for now, we're still close, and that still counts for something. Good night, Night Vale, good night." He clicks the transmitter off. Carlos offers him a ride back to the station, but Cecil waves it off, goes back to his own car, that same sadness still playing around his face.

And even though today was a victory, as he watches Cecil's taillights clip through the oncoming darkness, somehow Carlos doesn't feel like he won anything at all.


	2. Observers

**[off air]**

Sometimes a body acts without analysis. Muscles have memory, and it's not a conscious decision of his to drive into the radio station parking lot after he finishes collecting new soil samples from the Whispering Forest and taking the daily radiation readings from the subway entrances, but Carlos does it anyway. He pulls the key out and takes the stairs up.

Maybe things are messed up in Night Vale, but he can still count on the basic axioms of his science: for every action, there is an equal an opposite reaction.

He passes by the door to Station Management and forgets to shiver when the dark shapes move. Part of his mind is still thinking about the tests he'll run, but a larger part of him is checked out. The men's bathroom door has been left slightly ajar and Carlos can make out the shadow of a cat swatting at its kittens playfully, shapes spiraling through the air. He catalogs their motion like celestial bodies in orbit, and walks on.

The recording booth is a door down the hall that he knows well. He used to come here because he was worried about time, and his fingers still associate twisting the knob with the memory of prying open watches and clock faces then finding nothing inside. Now, he's a passenger in his own body, watching as his hand opens the door and not asking why, going with the feeling like this is another experiment, another trial except with himself as test subject.

In the booth, a man flicks a twist-tie around one finger as he spins from side to side in his office chair. A microphone is tilted down in front of him. "The Sheriff's Secret Police, in association with a Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency urge caution regarding these supermarket ephemera, and remind you that their recruitment fair is still in full swing. You'll know when they want you. And in other news, listeners, we have new developments on the Glow Cloud after yesterday's scuffle. Oh, and here's intern-"

Cecil's voice trails off when he sees Carlos. "Ah, but before that, though, we go now to a word from our sponsors."

A faint recording of Cecil's voice reading a haunting advertisement for Barnes and Noble flits in through the speakers as Cecil himself takes off his headphones and pushes the microphone away, smiling but confused.

"Hi. What are you-"

It's a good question. Carlos doesn't even know what he's doing until he's crossed to the other side of desk and tilts Cecil's face up to meet his. His body moves to some unseen blueprint that his thinking brain isn't privy to, and he registers the dizziness in his head before he realizes his own breathing is coming short.

"Oh." Cecil says, soft, eyelashes brushing close to closed.

"Yeah." Carlos hears his own voice come out rough, low. He's not sure what they're talking about, but when he tilts his head down so that his lips meet Cecil's, he doesn't care. Cecil's lips are just soft and warm, and more than anything, addictive. He feels the edge of the desk nudge into him as he leans in, uses the hand that tilted Cecil's chin up to cup his head and teases his bottom lip with his mouth. Cecil's pulse beats staccato under his hand.

Sometimes when there's all this life-saving and all this death, the wanting gets buried beneath self-preservation. But days like today, after Carlos has woken up covered in sweat, sometimes with or without library books on his bedside table, after he's performed his experiments in the dull haze of exhaustion, he feels the hollowness too keenly and it demands to be filled with something real, something that he can touch and say to himself this isn't fake or out to get him.

Something like this.

The commercial is ending, Carlos can tell from the way the recorded version of Cecil's voice lilts off, but he doesn't ease up, doesn't let go. If anything, he moves his hips so that he's leaning over more, pressing Cecil backwards onto the desk. Carlos feels Cecil move under him, and watches as the radio host reaches out and flicks something else while they kiss, another switch, and another commercial starts seamlessly while Cecil curls his hand into the front of Carlos' labcoat and doesn't let go.

Carlos does not pay attention to what company this commercial is for. Cecil's hands skim up over his shoulders and curl through Carlos' hair while Carlos' own hands go lower, moving over the broad expanse of Cecil's shirt and holding him in place as his tongue works its way in and out of Cecil's mouth. Cecil shivers and some base part of Carlos revels in it.

He wants to capture all the words that come out of that silver-tongued mouth, all the things that Cecil says on air that he doesn't think Carlos listens to, not just the embarrassing details about him, but also all the secret truths that Cecil hands out like candy when he twirls cords around his fingers, or looks out the window at the distant neon lights that cut through Night Vale's dusky sky. When Cecil moans, the sound vibrates in Carlos' mouth, too, and he pushes forward until Cecil's back is flat against the radio dials on the desk and then slips a hand under his shirt.

Carlos moves his attentions to Cecil's neck as the second commercial winds down, and he wonders if any listeners notice the slight hitch or strain in Cecil's voice when he swings the microphone around, arcs his back up, and tells his radio audience that it's time for the weather. His hands work the switches blind, his back to the control panel, groping for the right one and finding it, before craning his head over so that he puts the right selection on for the weather.

Carlos takes the opportunity to press his lips onto the part of Cecil's neck that quivers with his pulse, and Cecil gasps, maybe too soon or too late for the mic to pick it up.

Cecil could probably get in trouble for this, Carlos thinks as he pushes the other man's shirt collar back and brushes his lips lower, hand tightening over his hip. He remembers hearing about Station Management coming out of their offices once, remembers belatedly, among the chagrin of hearing his first date as a play-by-play over the radio, that there were people, or other things, not happy with the concentration on the romantic times of the host and not on the news.

His hand is still splayed out over Cecil's stomach and aching to do more, but he stops it there, gently takes it away. He kisses back up Cecil's neck and lips, already swollen. He hadn't cared how hard he'd been kissing him before. Probably neither had Cecil, whose eyes are still half-closed and face flushed.

He's coming back to himself, realizing that he, Carlos the scientist, has just walked into someone else's place of work while they had a job to do and interrupted them for reasons that are not defensible in any way. It's not like he had an announcement that he needed the town to be aware of. He wasn't going to do an interview. He didn't bring in any news.

He just came for this, this most unprofessional of actions, and it shocks him about as much as finding out that eating at Big Rico's once a week was mandated by law shocked him when he first came to Night Vale. He shouldn't be doing this, but here he is, pushing away from the control panel, watching as Cecil opens his eyes, and his lips, red and wide, are parted in shock or lazy appreciation of the aftermath.

Cecil didn't stop him, some part of Carlos' brain reminds him. He could have kept going, but he pushes the thought away.

"Just between us, okay?" Carlos says rather than asks, straightening his jacket and shirt in a hurry. Cecil nods dazedly, eyes following him with the intensity of molten lava.

The weather is still playing when Carlos steps backward in a hurry, guilty and sated all at the same time, says, "sorry," and walks out the door, down that mocking hallway and stairs, and out into his car, buckling himself in and trying to pretend that he's still in control, that he still knows what's going on.

He lays his head on the steering wheel. In some reference frame, everything is okay. He just has to find it.

**[on air]**

_weather: "Lies"_ _by CHVRCHES  
_

_(deep breath)_ And we're back, listeners. We apologize for the extended break, but several new developments have occurred in our most recent story regarding the Glow Cloud. Intern -ah- Evan brought in an update, in which Mayor Pamela Winchell, surrounded by the usual group of hooded figures, gave the following statement:

"Yes, like everyone else, we're _aware_ the Glow Cloud looks different. It is not a problem. It is _not_ a problem. Any complaints or questions about the President of the School Board should be addressed _to_ the School Board and _not_ brought up in important meetings for other departments or bureaus, especially those not associated with education. The next person to do this will be dealt with accordingly."

And then she stared at reporters, and the reporters quaked and then performed a ramshackle version of the hula. So, if you were in the vicinity earlier this afternoon and felt the ground tremble, no, it wasn't the subway reopening, though we're eagerly awaiting news on that front as well. No, it was just a haggard group of reporters, vibrating with an intrinsic, unstoppable fear and then hulaing off back to their homes or offices, or wherever they go.

And that's it for news. ... Listeners, have you ever- um. Okay, I'm asking this for a friend. Really, this is for a friend and no, that friend is _not_ me. Have you ever had someone just walk in and, well, you know...kiss you so hard the hairs on your arms stood up and then told you not to say anything about it to anyone? Again, this is totally _not_ me, because if it were I wouldn't be mentioning it, right? Right.

What do you do next? What would you do, listeners? Call in and help my friend out! And now, traffic.

**[off air]**

Cecil is standing in the men's bathroom, leaning against the wall and trying not to play back that scene in his head. It's not really working. He's been thinking about it all through his show, and Carlos' injunction that he tell no one has made it doubly hard to cope with. Old woman Josie called in and said that Cecil should just man up and ask for a second date. Cecil politely responded that the question wasn't about _his_ relationship, but a friend's, and old woman Josie huffed loudly and told him that Erika said he should stop being stupid and acting like they didn't already know it was him.

"Oh, which Erika?" Cecil had asked, genuinely curious.

"ALL of them." Old woman Josie replied, her voice gravelly and tone harsh. "Every Erika says you ask him out again. It's just what you _do_."

And Cecil spent an awkward five minutes after her call wondering if this was something again that he missed in seventh grade. He had been paying attention! Really!

He takes out his phone and pets Khoshekh, careful not to accidentally photograph the station pet, and he brings up his contacts list. He finds Carlos' number and dials it.

"Hey!" Cecil says when he answers, leaning back against a stall and trying to pretend that he's doing something much more suave than leaning against a stall. "I just finished up my show and was wondering if you were free."

Carlos always sounds different on the phone. Technology clearly hasn't evolved enough to capture his perfect voice. "Free?"

"Yeah! I mean, are you free tonight? Do you want to get dinner or something, or-"

"Cecil, maybe it's best if we don't. For a while."

Cecil holds the phone to his ear still, not quite sure what to do. Everyone, even the Erikas (all of them), said that a second date was the way to go. So why was it not?

"I mean like a date." Cecil hastily amends, sure that the reason this isn't working is because it's just not clear. Carlos is a scientist after all, and scientists know these things. "And we could go tomorrow or later, if that works better."

"Right." Carlos sighs. "I know. I think we need some distance for a while."

"Oh."

Static. Sometimes it creeps in on the broadcast or during a sandstorm and Cecil curses it, but for once, he's grateful. It fills the pause between them, making it for the moment something more than empty. For a while. How long is for a while? Why did they need distance when they'd been so close less than an hour ago? He feels like he's back on air again, probing the mysteries of the void, the way the sky separates and keeps separating, and how terrifying it is to be close and never come back together.

"Cecil, I've got to go. There's an experiment I need to finish."

"Oh, sure." The call ends before Cecil can say goodbye, and his eyes go from the dead screen to Khoshekh, who's purring and grooming one of his kittens. Cecil slides down to the floor against the side of the stall and looks out the window at the gathering darkness. _Goodnight, Night Vale._

Somewhere out there is a man in lab coat, whose lips burn like starfire and whose body moves like it's dancing through a meteor shower. Somewhere out there in that sea of lights, stray cells of Cecil's still mingle with his cells, and the closeness and terrifying prospect of distance in space and time is lost. There's just a man in a lab coat who everything keeps coming back to while everything else fades to dark. Cecil stands, and walks out.

_Goodnight._


End file.
